


Bird on a Wire

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Birds of Prey (Comic)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-20
Updated: 2006-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 07:37:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1639280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Barbara Gordon's wings have been clipped and the world hasn't been the same since.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bird on a Wire

**Author's Note:**

> PG-13 for language. Thanks to geek_mentality for all her help. No spoilers for anything recent.
> 
> Written for Amilyn

 

 

Barbara Gordon has never been all that good with the word 'no'. She never took it   
from her father, not if she really wanted something, she never accepted it from Batman,   
and she certainly never took the word 'no' as anything other than hot air from all of the   
various villains that she ran into as Batgirl. However, she's found the one thing that she   
hasn't been able to fight, the one thing that has said no to her and she hasn't been able to   
throw that back.

Her legs simply won't take her direction, won't fucking work and there isn't   
anything that she can do to fix that. Bruce has all these ideas that could fix her but they   
aren't for sure and they could, in fact, make things worse and for the first time in her life,   
she takes the word no and runs with it.

It's not that she's scared or anything.

Well, yeah, actually. It is. She's terrified. For the first time, she's scared that if   
she tries something and she fails, that it won't just be a moment where she shakes it off   
and keeps going. It'll be that moment where she has to accept that she's lost the use of   
her legs and that is never going to change. Right now, as things stand, there are still   
options on the table, still directions that she can go, should she choose to, and there's   
something comforting about that, even though she knows that they're going to sit there in   
perpetuity.

Barbara Gordon hasn't lost everything. She still has her connections, still has her   
friends, still has Dick and Tim, Dinah. Bruce, for all the good that does her. She has a   
job, a very good, well paying one that keeps her in the game, in the loop, still fighting the   
bad guys, even if it's a bit more hands-off than she'd like. She still has a life but it's a life   
that's so far removed from what she had before, from what she wanted, dreamt of, that it   
hurts to think about. So she doesn't.

With a steaming cup of earl grey, one of the few remnants of her obsession with Captain   
Picard, she sits in her chair in front of the bay of computer screens and works, her mind   
humming along with all the motors and fans whirring in the backs of all of the computers   
set up on this side of the Clocktower. The super computer sits in the next room and while   
it would probably get things done a bit faster if she used it, the room is cold, too cold for   
her current outfit and she doesn't want to deal with the pain in the ass that it'll be if she   
changes now.

There are a few notes left for her on the specially encoded instant messenger   
service, one from Tim about a lead that he thinks he's found and one from Dick, asking   
about dinner tomorrow. She taps out the required responses and watches the video feed   
from the docks out of the corner of her eye.

Things have been a bit quiet and that worries her, although she'll never admit it.   
Legs of rubber, spine of steel, that's her. Ever since she was shot (and yeah, she can think   
it, can form the words in her brain but can't quite get them to come out of her mouth)-   
since she was attacked- since she was devastated in the front room of her father's house,   
she's been waiting. Waiting for the next thing to come hurtling at her. It's a much bigger   
deal, now that she can't dodge out of the way as easily as she could before. Not that it   
helped all that much in the end. StillÉ she waits.

There's random chatter over the coms from Dinah, various bits of gossip, news   
from around Gotham and around the world that Dinah just has to pass along. It's really a   
joke- she knows that Barbara doesn't give a shit but it creates a system for knowing when   
the coms are working and when they aren't. And it takes away from the silence of the   
Clocktower.

It's easy to get lost in the quiet, especially when the majority of the time, you're   
alone. Not many people drop by, especially uninvited. The Bat and Dick, they get   
around and see her, Tim on occasion, Cassandra sometimes as well but they aren't the   
chattiest bunch around and sometimes Barb just needs someone to just talk. At her, with   
her, just talk.

So she turns up Dinah's feed and clicks on the two-way button, making noises as   
appropriate regarding the latest fashion trend in Bulgaria. It takes up most of the next   
hour, then Dinah hits her mark and it's all radio silence and covert ops. Barbara misses it   
almost more than she misses her legs, but not quite.

Her stomach growls at her and she frowns, not knowing what to make. The   
grocery delivered supplies to her the day before yesterday so she's all stocked but the   
decision as to what to make is something that boggles her mind. Tea, a definite. Pasta is   
promising but could be messy if Dinah makes things more interesting than the mission   
plan called for. She could call out for pizza but it always shows up just when she can't   
afford to be away from her consoles.

She still has the leftovers from dinner with her father that more than likely haven't   
gone bad yet. Steak and potatoes from Jimmy's, the best steak house in the whole world,   
Bruce's tastes be damned. It's the first thing on the list that sounds even remotely   
interesting so she pulls out a plate and some silverware, the aluminum take-out container   
from the fridge and a bottle of sparkling water with- living on the edge here, Gordon- a   
twist of lime.

Thunder rattles all the glass in the building and she jumps a bit in her chair, then   
chides herself, having watched three different weather reports on various channels,   
including the internet feed from the Gotham Meteorology Authority, all calling for   
thunderstorms. She had sent the notice out herself to Robin and the other folks under her   
protection. She shouldn't be surprised and yet she is. Off her game. Perhaps for a long   
while.

But, she reminds herself. She's still alive. She's still here, still breathing, living,   
still fighting the good fight and actually making a difference. That should make her feel   
better and it does. Mostly. She cuts the steak, a little tough after sitting in the fridge but   
still tasty and good. She loads her refreshed cup of tea, her plate and various   
accoutrements onto the travel tray that slides onto the armrests of her chair, then wheels   
herself back into the computer room.

Barb checks her various systems, finds that she has another IM from Dick. He's   
already checked in, called it a slow night in Bludhaven and gone home. It's not an   
unusual thing, especially not lately but she's not sure what she should say to that. Glad   
there's no crime; sorry you have to go home early? She takes a bite of steak and reaches   
for the keyboard, to make some sort of comment back when the doorbell rings. She   
listens to Dinah's feed one last time- nothing yet, so far, so good- and decides that she   
can at least check out the security feed and see who the hell is visiting at, what time is it?   
Eleven o'clock at night.

She leaves the tray of food by the computer but takes her mug with her, her taser   
hidden along her side, easily within reach but out of sight, and heads for the door. She   
brushes a few crumbs off her legs, one or two attempting to cling to the fleece of her   
sweat pants. At the security panel, she tunes the monitor to the front entryway and   
almost chokes.

Dick, dressed in a suit (non-Bat related), holding a bouquet of flowers. They look   
fresh and local, like he picked them himself, the ones that she likes on the way from   
Gotham to Bludhaven. He looks good and she takes a glance down at herself and sees   
that sweats, the t-shirt, old and faded, hair in a ponytail, glasses on. She's a mess. Crap.   
Still, it's Dick, he knows she's home and he's Bruce's son, so if she doesn't answer the   
door, he climb the wall or something and end up inside anyway.

She rings him up, unlocks the elevator and tries to make herself look presentable.   
Not exactly the easiest thing to do when you can't actually run around like a chicken with   
your head cut off. She sets the mug on the hallway table, no time to run it back to the   
kitchen and the he's up in the apartment and out of the elevator before she can really start   
to freak out. He hands her the flowers, let's her look at them, then sets off for the kitchen   
where he knows she keeps the vases. He takes the mug with him.

Dick moves around the apartment as if he lives there, as if he knows it as well as   
she does. Barbara likes that and yet she doesn't. It's uncomfortable, having someone   
know her and knowing this place is a part of knowing her. He's found a vase, one of her   
mother's that she's had for years and never really used, afraid of breaking it, and he   
places it on the kitchen table, in between the salt and peppershakers and the napkin holder   
that serves no purpose but to pretend that she's living a normal life with visitors and   
friends as frequent guests.

And with that done, he turns his focus on her and it's like a beam of warm, soft   
light when he looks at her and smiles. He doesn't say anything, just takes off his coat and   
loosens the tie that she can't believe he wore. He kneels before her chair, eyes blue and   
bright and he reaches out with one hand to cup her face. His hands are rough but gentle   
and she leans into him without thinking. She smiles, lost in his face for a moment.

Dick leans forward, rising on his knees, and kisses her. His lips are sweet and she   
can taste the toothpaste he used earlier in the evening. He's said nothing since he arrived   
and she doesn't care. He doesn't need to. His lips, his tongue, his hands- they all speak   
to her in ways that words can't and as he kisses her, she swears she can fell it all the way   
to her toes.

 


End file.
